by Camden Leigh
She pats his arm and smiles. “Still as thoughtful as I remember.”
“Part of my charm.”
I join Quinn and Ellie in the foyer. “Quinn, the tailor called and said he could squeeze you in tonight. Seven okay?”
“Tux at seven, sure.” He nods then adds, “And thanks for your—for everything.”
“Yes,” Ellie says. “I’m sorry you had to hear all of our problems.”
“We all have them.” And that’s the truth.
Chapter 9
Quinn
“Quincy?” Mom knocks gently on the door. Like she even knows how to be gentle. “Quincy, open the door.”
“The darkroom stays dark for a reason. Can we talk later?” I dump more developer in the tray before submerging the photo.
“Since you’ve decided to grace us with your presence, I’ve seen the Covington spirit collapse. The wedding is weeks away and I can’t have your sisters portraying a divided front because they can’t agree whether to hate you or love you. Deal with this, Quincy.”
I sling the plastic tongs across the room into the sink and run my hand through my hair. I inhale a little too strongly and cough out the sulfuric stench of mixed chemicals. “Just . . . leave. Okay? I don’t know what to tell you. I’m sorry. I really am, but I won’t beg for their forgiveness. They’ll come around when they’re ready.”
“John Quincy Covington, open this door now.” Mom bangs harder, snapping me from the recollection.
I scan the room, and not seeing anything light sensitive except the ruined picture in the developer, I rinse my hands, unlock the door and swing it open.
“Thank you,” she spouts.
I stare at her, waiting for her knife-jabbing words to bleed me dry.
She inhales; her chest puffs up. Her lips tighten across her face but the wrinkles around her eyes soften. It’s the first time I’ve seen her go mild since I’ve returned.
“Let’s find middle ground. Be the brother they need.”
“That’s just it, Mom; they don’t need me anymore, so don’t push the issue.” I dry my hands on my shirt, then tuck them in my pockets.
“You’re the one who walked away.” She purses her lips and sighs, nostrils flaring larger than a horse’s. “Before this wedding, make amends with your sisters . . . and the community.”
“Is that what this is really about? The community? Shall I run an ad in the local press and beg forgiveness on bended knee? Or shall I tell them the truth?”
Her lips tighten over her teeth.
“Why is it so important for me to catch up with everyone? They’re different. I’m different. I went to the yacht club like you asked, what more do you want?”
“You’re right, we’re all different. Five years changes a person.” Mom grabs my arms and gives it an affectionate squeeze. Something she hasn’t done since I was young. “Some change for the better . . . like Annabeth.”
I growl and wrench my arm loose. “I’ve long gotten over Annabeth. While yes, she can be a charming girl and has proven time and time again how well she fits in with the Covingtons, she doesn’t fit in with me. Like you’ve said, five years changes a person. It changes your perception of your past and sets expectations for people you bring into your present. Please, can we drop this?”
Mom looks as if I’d slapped her. I didn't mean to sound so brash but, God, what do I have to say to get my point across?
“How can you say she doesn’t fit in with you? You haven’t even talked to her. All I’m asking is for you to give her an hour of your time. Be sure, before you write her off completely.” Mom pats me on the arm and offers a smile. A freaking smile. “Don’t say a pair of shoes doesn’t fit before you’ve tried them on. They just might be exactly what you’re looking for.”
Unbelievable. “I can do that, but only if they’re the right size. The ones you want me to like are two sizes too small and I know for a fact they’ll suffocate me.”
Her lips part, bob together several times then she huffs out an exhale. “I’m heading to town. Don’t forget to get measured for your tux and suit. I had to beg the tailor to add to our order, so be prompt and gracious.” She turns on her heels and marches up the steps. No sorry. No indication she heard one word of our conversation. Kind of like the day I left.
I head back into the darkroom and just as I press the door closed, it nudges open. What now?
Kat pushes her way through. She blinks several times, eyes adjusting to the faint orange glow. She walks beneath the hanging photos, touching every other one. “You’re good.”
She hoists up onto the counter, pulling her legs in and wedges into the corner. I study her, then the freedom outside the door. When she was small, she’d sit in here for hours, twirling her blond hair around her fingers. Not talking. But she’s all opinion lately, so who knows what she’s doing here. Aside from shooting poison darts out her eyes.
I close the door, lock it, and move back to the enlarger to redo the photo. I pull out the negative and flip it over before sliding it back in place. Cassidy’s fuzzy profile marks the tabletop. I twist a knob until the freckles on her nose come into focus. I’d caught her sitting under the magnolias on one of my ventures across the property. I’d snapped the picture, freezing her carefree gaze peering through the leaves as she squeezed a book to her chest. I run my finger over her parted lips, wishing I could feel their warmth instead of the cool board beneath the projected image. I flip the light and the image disappears.
What am I doing? I turn and scan the other pictures clipped to the line running across the room. The statue in the town square. A root pushing through the brick sidewalk near the local cinema. The magnolias at the cemetery.
“So the wedding planner.” Kat points.
I drop my gaze. “Is that a question, Kat?” She was always good at prying without asking a single question.
She shrugs. “If you need it to be.”
I study her face. Like me, she has the remarkable pointed nose and the dimple from Dad’s side. Ellie got Mom’s pointed chin and fierce brows, the kind that make you want to run if you’re caught under their glare. Devil Brow, that’s what I called her when she’d pitch fits. I never noticed Kat’s when she was younger, but she has them, too. “You’ve grown up.”
“You’ve filled out.” She reaches forward and squeezes my bicep, wrapping both her hands around it. “And gone rogue.” She traces the tattoo on my arm and I pull away.
I hang the photo from the bath tray on the line.
“Where was that?” she asks.
“Behind the barn.”
“Near Dad’s office?” Kat’s eyes widen.
I nod. I hadn’t been back there since the night Dad died. I thought I was ready the other day, but standing on the porch, I couldn’t bring myself to enter. I skirted around to the gardens in back. Cassidy was sleeping on the hammock. Sunlight sprinkled perfectly across her face, and the daisies behind her intensified the crimson in her hair. I clicked the picture, freezing her in black-and-white.
“No one goes there, ya know. Not even Momma.” Kat pushes off the counter and walks up to the photo. “Looks like the gardens still bloom.”
“Yeah.”
She flicks the photos. “Town, the cemetery, the water tower”—she shakes her head— “and a girl.”
I busy with cleaning my trays and wiping down the countertops.
“Do you like this girl?” she asks.
Isn’t it obvious?
“I do.”
Kat grabs a negative spool and feeds the practice strip unsuccessfully. “Asked her out yet?”
Not only have I asked her out, I’ve kissed her, touched her, tasted her, held her while she’s slept. Asking her out seems easy. But nothing is easy with Cassidy.
“So the answer’s no?”
“Your point, Kat?”
“Just trying to figure out why you’re here. I don’t think it’s for us, and it isn’t for Annabeth because I remember y’all being chummy-yummy all the t
ime. Now you look at her as if she’s wine turned to vinegar.”
That’s the truth. Everything Annabeth was, is everything Cassidy isn’t. Annabeth is clingy, moldable, pretty much a plaything. There’s no serious emotion, no hurt, no pain. Cassidy holds her own, doesn’t conform or make lousy excuses—except to not go out with me. She is definitely someone I’d like to play with, but she isn’t a toy. She’s a fierce, beautiful woman.
“This copperhead makes you go all soft, which totally contradicts your tats.” She pulls Cassidy’s picture off the line. “Methinks you like this girl but lack the balls to tell her.” She holds the photo over her face like a mask. “Have you tried flowers? Chocolate?”
“She’s stubborn.” I turn and give Kat my undivided attention so we can move away from the subject of my failing plea for Cassidy’s attention.
“So are you. Unlike before.” She slips the picture onto the counter. “I’m still debating, but I think I like the new Quinn.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means . . . I may have overreacted earlier, but this isn’t an apology.” She shrugs. “And it means I might forgive you one day, but not today.”
“I’ll take that.” I huff in relief then pull her against me, hugging her to my chest. She’s much taller than the twelve-year-old I left behind. So grown up and adult. Gone are the mornings I’d make her waffles, kiss her head, and smell nothing but syrup. “I’ve missed you, Kat.”
She wraps her arms around me but doesn’t relax.
“Please forgive me. Please know I didn’t leave to hurt you. I hated leaving you behind.”
“Then why?” Her hands form into fists and she pushes against my chest.
What does she remember? How bad did Mom get after I left? Did she know Mom’s locked bedroom door disguised her drinking and pill popping? I don’t want to make things worse.
“I can’t explain it.”
She shoves me away. “You better figure out how because I’m only the first in a long line of pissed-off people waiting for the answer.”
Her phone buzzes. She steps back but doesn’t dig it out of her pocket.
The reason dances across my lips, jumps on my tongue like a springboard. I let it belly flop into nothing. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I, Quinn.”
Chapter 10
Cassidy
“Do you like this one, Quinn?” Ellie holds up a photo of a tux with tails dragging the ground.
I close my eyes, distancing myself from the Covingtons. I swear Ellie, Quinn, and especially Kat, obliterated Mrs. Covington’s patience during the taste testing.
“I don’t like it.” Quinn narrows his eyes and rubs his knuckles across his chin.
I follow the sexy stubble dusting his face. God, imagine the burn I’d feel if he drew lines across my stomach with his chin. Goose bumps explode down my spine. Remind me why I told him we couldn’t be messing around anymore?
Feeling his hard muscles beneath my fingers, feeling the heat radiate off his skin and the beat of his heart just under the surface, has ruined my ability to keep him off my mind. To be totally honest, I’m growing fond of him. I keep telling myself he’s just another fixture in the house. Like the kitchen sink or the flower arrangement in the hallway. But that doesn’t help. When he talks, I hang onto every word. When he moves, my skin prickles in anticipation, hoping he brushes against me as he walks by. He’s got me so worked up that when he walks into a room I eagerly await my turn for the casual greetings he hands out like candy—the kiss on the cheek, his hands light on my hips. There’s no ignoring him. Just heart-palpitating, hip-thrusting lust for him.
My nipples tighten and I press my arms across my chest to suppress the ache. He’s so easy to be with. So easy to touch . . . to kiss.
Quinn’s not Preston, I know this, but if Preston, whom I’d been friends with for two years before we started dating, could hurt me, what would a near stranger be capable of? I don’t really know Quinn. Whatever he’s hiding could be far more than I can handle. And I’m already at the edge with my own issues.
My eyes flick to Quinn’s. He runs his tongue over his lip, eyes dropping to my clenched arms. I divert my gaze.
“This tux?” Ellie holds up another photo.
I swear, his mom hasn’t taken her eyes off me. Neither has Quinn, for that matter, but their reasons are way different. One, more often than not, wants to kill me, the other wants to kiss me.
“Just pick one, Eleanor,” Mrs. Covington says, and slaps the table. “So we can be done with it and the tailor can get started.”
Ellie’s eyes bulge. “Medium tails, midnight blue. This . . . tie.”
“Thank you. Now his suit for the ceremony. Annabeth picked this one. Classy and slightly different from the groom’s and his men.” Mrs. Covington pulls out a photo clipped to a size sheet.
“Why is Annabeth picking out my suit?” Quinn asks. “Ellie should—”
“Because you’ll be walking down the aisle with her . . . after you walk Eleanor in, of course.” Mrs. Covington slaps down the photo.
“Nix the jacket. It’s too hot. I’ll wear the vest and a tie. How’s that, Ellie? You pick the color.”
Ellie nods and drops her chin to her chest, shying away from whatever tension brews between Quinn and his mom. It’s new. A little more intense than the slow burning flicker of tension that his tattoos rouse in her. It’s more a rage. A controlled rage.
I move toward them to get the style number for the tailor.
Quinn steps into my path, blocking me from advancing. “Take a break with me.”
God, I wish. “I can’t, but maybe you should take one.” I cut my gaze to Mrs. Covington. “Give Annabeth a call. You’d promised her coffee, remember?”
He purses his lips. “I already had coffee with her.”
I refocus on the chicly dressed guy blocking my way. There’s nothing store-bought or average about him, and it works in his favor. His starched button-down shirt covers most of his tattoos and money obviously sewed his pants, because he’s dripping in tailored perfection. He belongs on a modern men’s magazine cover, not a prep school advertisement like the rest of the guys around here. What Quinn did Annabeth know? Obviously she’s into loafer deck shoes and guys who look like they just stepped off a million-dollar yacht, but for Quinn . . . that look doesn’t suit him. Or does it?
I much prefer the less starched Quinn in beat-up tees and running shorts or boxers. That’s the Quinn I’ll hold in my memory, not the Quinn Annabeth prefers.
“We had a good talk and resolved some issues, but I’m different now.” He tugs on his collar. “And she’s not.”
“Not at all?”
He shrugs. “She’s softened a bit and lets things slide, but her goals haven’t changed. Mine have.”
“Oh.” I glance around him. “I really should get back to work . . . while I still have a job.”
“Have dinner with me.”
“I, um . . .” I wave my hand in the air, searching for words. Yes wants to roll off my tongue, but I can’t. Mrs. Covington’s always looking for a reason to shove me in a box and ship me as cargo to another continent.
He grabs my hand and stills my fidgeting. His muscles ripple his shirt. Don’t look, close your eyes. Think ugly, not sexy, not . . . ugh. So sexy. So . . . .yum.
“Get to know me,” he whispers. “The real me.”
“Get to know the Quinn who left his family? I don’t need more drama in my life.” The words pour out, probably because I imagine the worst. And that’s making an effort, getting to know him, falling for him worse than I already have and him leaving. Him running. But that doesn’t give me the right to fling mud at him like everyone else. “Sorry. I’m . . . you’ve just— shit.” No excuse I make for myself will hold. Not for me. Not for him.
His hand tightens around mine, drawing my eyes to his. “Those are harsh words coming from Baby Einstein, the mathematical genius daughter of Samuel and Clara Beck, who practically
own—”
“I’m not her.” I suck in a breath and hold it. How did he find out? Hate builds in my chest. Not toward him, but my mom for feeding lies to the media, for making me more than I wanted to be. They dissected my life and asked questions about my poor parents and the open invitation to Harvard I rejected. They made me the villain.
“And I’m not who I was either.” He shrugs. “I’m asking for dinner. Just dinner.”
It’s a tempting request. “You’re crazy.” I paw his hands off me and put distance between us. The lack of contact feels icebox cold and I step closer to him, realize it, then step away.
“Your mom’s looking for a reason to chop my head off. I don’t plan on giving her one.”
“By avoiding me?”
“I’m not avoiding you,” I say a little too loudly. Maybe cutting off my headlights in the driveway is a bit overkill. I sigh and look him in the eyes. “I can’t eat with you, drink with you . . . kiss you, because A, I’ll lose my job, and B, I’m not looking for a guy. I don’t need a guy. There’s you. And there’s me. Living parallel lives. At no point moving forward will they intersect.”
“But they could.”
“Look up parallel in the dictionary,” I huff.
“Ms. Beck, unless your conversation with Quincy is of the upmost importance, I believe your time is worth more here”—she taps the coffee table with her demon-sharp nail— “with the bride.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Pissed at Quinn for making me look the fool when I’m trying extra hard to stay on Boss Lady’s good side, I add a grumble thrown in his direction.
“That’s my fault. I’m just discussing the god-awful tail lengths on that tux and what we can do to remedy the penguin look.” Quinn blasts a charming smile and his sincere apology toward Mrs. Covington. “Just a couple minutes and she’s all yours. Promise,” he says as he pulls me to the corner and out of view.
“What are you—”
His mouth comes down over mine, obliterating my words. Any will power I had crumbles. Right into him. His tongue is just as I remember: hot, demanding, and more tempting than a seven-layer chocolate cake. His stubble scratches across my chin, intensifying the kiss, making me step into him and work my hands up his chest. I attempt calm and casual, but lust wins and I can’t help but curl my fingers into his shirt and mark it with wrinkles.
